


Midnight Hustle

by Vanny



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanny/pseuds/Vanny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Midnight Crew visits another town to gamble, shoot pool, and generally cause mayhem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Hustle

“Droog? Excuse me!”

Droog’s face is a mask of cool, exasperated patience as he turns to Deuce from his gin and tonic. “What is it?”

“Can I borrow your cue?”

Boxcars, at Droog’s elbow, laughs a cloud of beer over his shoulder. “You gonna shoot some pool, half-pint?”

“I am!” Deuce cries, a tiny, portly picture of indignation. “It is so much fun! And Droog’s cue is the nicest.”

Droog sighs and retrieves the stick from his deck, giving it a once-over for bloodstains. Clean. “So help you if you put a scratch on it,” he says, but Deuce seems immune to his narrowed eyes and low-voiced menace, as usual.

“Kiss it for luck,” he demands.

“What was that?”

“I said, kiss it for good luck,” Deuce repeats, and Droog just looks at him.

“Aw, I’ll do it!” Boxcars roars. He snatches the stick from Droog, plants a sloppy kiss somewhere along its length, and tosses it to Deuce. Ignoring Droog’s glare, he shouts out into the bar, “Hey, Slick! Deucey thinks he’s gonna shoot some pool! You better play him so’s the money stays in the family, know what I mean?”

Slick looks up from the whiskey sour and jukebox he was entertaining himself with. “Shit, Droog,” he says, “how many times do I have to tell you to quit lending him your fuckin’ cue? Did it maybe occur to you that I was doing something?” Droog, set upon from all sides now, mutters something unintelligible and turns back to his drink.

Predictably, Deuce loses game after game and wad after wad of cash to Slick, but that doesn’t keep him from whining that he wants to play for real, he’s tired of Slick babying him. Finally, Slick throws up his hands in disgust and hangs up his cue. “Fine. But don’t ask me to lend you money.”

At the bar, Droog and Boxcars share a grin that the barman pretends not to see.

Deuce does ask Slick for money, increasingly desperately, and Slick gives it to him, and he loses it again. And then, all at once, he stops fooling around and starts shooting pool. The poor suckers around the table gape as he pockets one ball after another. Droog and Boxcars are turned around on their stools now, watching the action. Slick leans against the jukebox, feeling pretty good about being a crook.

Finally, the murmurs get angry. It’s a rough bunch, most of them Dersite exiles, and the Crew is far from their hometown. Casually, Droog and Boxcars slide off their barstools and stand behind the other two, to an impressive, looming effect that they’ve rehearsed many times. Almost gently, Droog lifts his cue from Deuce’s hands, and Boxcars shuffles his TV antenna out of his deck. Slick’s hand is inside his jacket, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife. Deuce doesn’t look like he’s doing much of anything, but he’s starting to give off a telltale scent of gunpowder.

“Hey, Boss,” Boxcars says, his voice booming out quite naturally so that he doesn’t even need to shout to hush the crowd. “Looks like these ladies and gents wanna rematch. Should we give it to ‘em?”

“No fuckin’ respect,” Slick snaps back. Droog just smiles a little, adjusts his grip on the cue, and smooths his tie.

One lunge and Occam’s Razor flashes out before there’s time to cock a gun. A rangy Dersite staggers away from Slick, clutching a deep gash in his shoulder. Droog steps in and swings the butt end of the cue into the gambler’s face with a brittle crack of carapace. He steps back neatly to avoid getting blood on his shoes as the other man falls.

The crowd becomes a mob, and the Crew is in their element. Boxcars lashes his TV antenna at eye level, and Deuce’s club is making short work of kneecaps. Droog has long since switched to a backup tie, leaving the blood-spotted original lying across a small heap of limp bodies. Slick, given the opportunity to show a lot of stabs, is getting fancy.

When the mob is at bay, they back out of the door together amidst Slick’s curses, Boxcars’ roars, Deuce’s laughter, and Droog’s contented silence.

“Hey, Slick!” Deuce says, when he can make himself heard.

“Yeah?”

Deuce holds up a round object--a hollowed-out eight ball, ratting with gunpowder and scrap metal. “Made you something.” Slick grins toothily. Deuce sets it off and lobs it underhand into what’s left of the bar.

By the time the windows blow out, they are far enough away that all they feel is a rush of heat and a patter of sand against their backs. Boxcars claps Deuce on the shoulder with a grin. “Good hustle, Two-Spot,” he says, “good hustle.”


End file.
